


Sea Change

by Echo (Lyrecho)



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe, Conspiracies, Fluff and Angst, Iedolas spelt as Idola, Prince!Prompto AU, because I've been spelling it like that for years, official translations can BITE ME, tense changes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-27 09:49:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10001594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyrecho/pseuds/Echo
Summary: In which Prompto is born Aldercapt, not Argentum - and from this one small divergence,everythingspirals out of control.|Tumblr||Twitter|





	

**Author's Note:**

> if you follow me on tumblr, this won't be anything new! these are just the snippets of this au I've already posted over there, and that's basically what this is going to be - a series of snippets written and posted on tumblr to be edited and compiled here later.
> 
> updates will be hella slow

In this world, Prompto is born under the name Aldercapt – not Besithias, not Argentum.

This _changes_ things.

Being born the heir to the empire rather than the soldier-son of a fanatical scientist lord, he – his mother – are never entered into the newly formed Magitek Project. He is conceived and born without the taint of the Scourge; without any of the enhancements that make MTs _inhuman_.

He is born _sickly_.

Not even a few hours old, and the Crown Prince Aldercapt does not seem long for this world. His mother, a young woman – _too young_ , the court had whispered of their Empress after she was crowned – always a fragile thing; seems like she may follow her son into the Unseen Realm.

The Emperor stands outside of the birthing room, expression dour. He is an old man, who took a wife solely to produce an heir. This was his last chance. If the boy-child wailing weakly beyond that door does not survive, there will be no more children. Niflheim will _die_ with _him_ at the helm.

 _Unacceptable_.

“Call for the Chancellor,” he barks out to the guards standing by the door. “Get Izunia here _immediately_.”

Izunia is a contrary man, and Idola isn’t stupid enough to believe that he is _truly_ loyal to him, or even to the empire – but he trusts that the other man has put enough time and effort into building up the empire to let it burn now. If nothing else, he _knows_ Izunia’s hatred of Lucis is an all-encompassing _venom_ that takes root in the man like a sickness. For now, at least, Izunia can be trusted with the care of Idola’s heir.

“My _dear_ Emperor.” The man’s voice is a drawl as he strolls down the hall with arms spread wide, as if to embrace Idola.

Idola glares, and his Chancellor backs off with a smile. “Never mind, then,” he says cheerfully. “You called for me?”

Idola squints at the man standing expectantly beside him. “You have some skill in healing, do you not?” He asks gruffly, and Izunia’s brows reach for the skies.

“Oh, I am simply the _best_ healer you will ever encounter,” he says, voice silky smooth and a terrible sort of amusement filling it – like he’s laughing at some sort of personal joke. “I can make your son strong, if that is what you are asking – but it _will_ have a _little_ price, dear Emperor.”

Idola raises one eyebrow at his Chancellor, stares at him dully. “What price?” He sighs. _You’re already the second most powerful person in the empire_ , he thinks sourly.

“Oh, nothing so awful as whatever it is _you’re_ thinking,” Izunia chides. “I simply meant that I am not an oracle, dear man – I cannot summon forth miracles. And your son _is_ just an infant. To interfere with his growth too much right now…well. It would _not_ be a good idea.”

Idola can feel a headache beginning to pound at his temples – he sighs, and gestures for Izunia to go on. “Speak _plainly_ ,” he says.

“It would be best, I think,” Izunia says slowly, “to heal him little by little, over the years – let his _own_ body eventually do the work. Of course, to do this, I’ll have to spend _quite_ a lot of time around the boy…” A sharp grin. “Just call me Uncle Ardyn,” he says, and steps through the doorway of the birthing room to take Idola’s son from the arms of the midwife that hovers over his wife’s waning body.

The boy falls silent as Ardyn coos at him, and Idola wonders absentmindedly if the Chancellor is already working his magic – but for the most part, his focus is on the girl that lay, panting (dying) on the bed, sheets torn under her hands and stained with sweat, blood and birthing fluids.

He stares at her without warmth, but not without pity – she was young enough to be his own child twice over, and now her life has been cut shirt in order to bring his son into the world. There is, and has never been, no love lost between the current Emperor Aldercapt and the girl-bride he’d had forced upon him – but he feels enough compassion to watch her as she dies; as her breaths come slower and slower as her heart ticks towards its last beat.

Her eyes meet his. “Can I…hold him?” Her voice is a weak rasp, but her hands flutter from where they lay limp at her sides – as if she is trying to reach for the infant boy the Chancellor holds cradled in his arms.

Idola turns to raise a questioning brow at Izunia – the idea of refusing what may be his wife’s last request does not sit well with the part of him that is the Emperor; trained in decorum and pretty words and actions since birth – but Izunia is pouting at the girl in a mockery of sympathy.

“Dear girl,” he says softly, “right now I am the only thing keeping your son’s systems from beginning to fail once more.” His lips twist into a smirk as her eyes well up with tears. “We only need face _one_ royal death today, I should think.” And with that, he turns his attention back to Idola’s son – like the girl lying on the bed is already nothing more than a corpse, and thus not worth his time.

“Your Grace,” she gasps out. “Your Grace, please – I want him to know his name.”

Idola blinks, and then understands – but he hadn’t thought of a name, yet; that was the territory of the mother, to reveal the name she has chosen to all when the babe reaches its first dawn, letting Radiant Eos know that She is the first to hear the name spoken; that She will always be whom the child loves most and turns their face towards. To speak the name now – give it to the child in darkness, the midst of the night as they currently were –

It was _far_ from a good omen.

He knew what she was asking, though – clearly, she had already thought of a name for his son, one he would never get to hear or be called by if they were to follow tradition and await the dawn. His wife would be long dead by that time.

Idola prepares to say no – his son was nearly stillborn and even now his mother lay dying in his birth-bed; he was far from superstitious but he _refuses_ to allow even the slightest _chance_ for misfortune to befall his son –

And that’s when Izunia speaks up.

“Please, dear Lady,” he says, and walks up to stand beside her with a smile, tilting the child in his arms so that his face is visible to his mother. “Give him his name.”

She smiles, and presses a shaking hand to bloodless lips – the tears making tracks down her face now are ones of happiness, and she seemingly takes a leave of madness because she gaps out the child’s name, taking the Chancellor’s word over the Emperor’s – her _husband’s_ – “Prompto,” she says quietly. “His name is Prompto.”

“…a lovely name, to be sure,” Izunia says, and pulls back. His eyes meet Idola’s. “Don’t you agree, Your Grace?”

A chill runs down Idola’s spine as he stares at his Chancellor – and at his son, cradled in his arms; almost as unnaturally silent as the children Verstael is producing with his Magitek Project. The thought comes with a creeping sense of unease, and he deliberately does not think on the darkness that flickers freely at the edge of the man’s eyes – “yes,” he says carefully, and offers his wife one final smile – he knows what the haze that has fogged over her eyes meant well; she had mere seconds left on this world, he may as well have made her last memory a nice one. “A strong name. Our son will bring new prosperity to the empire.”

“Oh, _yes_ ,” Ardyn murmurs as her rasping breaths finally fall silent. “I think that’s _exactly_ what this little one will do.”

And then he laughs.  


* * *

 

>  FOURTEEN YEARS LATER

* * *

  
Prompto took a deep breath, and peered around the doorway – no one was there. _Good_ , he thought, and took a cautious step out into the hall. _If no one is watching, I can’t be caught_.

And he _very much_ literally could _not_ afford to be caught –

If he did, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to even _survive_ his punishment this time.

He left the doorway completely – the hall was still empty.

Not a trap, then.

A voice laughed in the back of his mind, but he didn’t jump, or feel fear – he was used to it; he couldn’t even _remember_ a time when Ifrit hadn’t been there with him. _You’re stealth needs work_ , the Infernian grumbled, and Prompto rolled his eyes.

 _My stealth is_ fine, he thought.

 _You’ll be singing a different tune when your father finds out you left your room_ , Ifrit warned. _Duck into that next room; someone is approaching_.

Prompto followed the instructions without a second thought, cursing the bright white and gilt of his clothes – if he was caught, it wouldn’t be his ‘stealth’ (or lack thereof) that brought him down, he suspected – no, it would be the beacon that his clothes just _were_ , why was _Lucis_ the kingdom that got a sensible colour scheme?

He pushed the door gently shut just in time to hear heels click by, followed by the rhythmic whirring of Magitek units – one of the generals, then; no one else was allowed an armed escort in the palace except the royal family.

 _Go back to your room, princeling_ , Ifrit chided. _Your guardian will be after you soon_.

Prompto shuddered at the thought – his guardian was _terrifying_ – but he stood firm, and

shook his head. He was twelve – not an idiot _or_ a child – and he _needed_ answers.

“If you would just tell me what’s in those labs,” he said quietly, “I wouldn’t have to go down there to find out myself.”

 _How is it you think you hear me_ speak _within your head,_ idiot _princeling?_ Ifrit radiated anger. _My presence within you healed you as a child, and even now I give you strengths beyond human – but it cannot remain this way forever. The labs seek to create me a body alongside your father’s weapons of war – are you satisfied now? Go_ back _to your room, princeling_.

But Prompto bit at his lip. “I heard _screaming_ ,” he whispered, unsure. “A girl.”

 _A_ dream, Ifrit stressed. _There is nothing in those labs to worry about. Nothing that concerns_ you.

Prompto opened his mouth to argue – and it was at that moment the door he still leant against was yanked open, and he fell – right into the waiting arms of his guardian.

 _…you were_ stalling _me_ , Prompto realised with dismay, and radiated as much _betrayal_ he could Ifrit’s way as pure venom.

At the back of his mind, Ifrit was smug – and above him, gripping his arms tight, was Ardyn – smiling down at him in a way that sent chills down his spine.

“Imagine my worry,” his guardian said, low and silky, “when I went to your room, only to see you were not there.” He raised one pointed brow. “Now what, exactly, do you think you’re doing, little prince?”

“ _Nothing_ ,” Prompto said quickly, and Ifrit laughed.

“Likely story,” Ardyn said, but there wasn’t any anger in his voice – Prompto relaxed; apparently his guardian, for whatever reason, was in a good enough mood that he did _not_ have punishment on the mind. “Your father wants to see you,” he said, and just as Prompto was relaxing, a different sort of fear shot ice through his veins.

“Why?” He asked plaintively, before he could stop himself – and Ardyn shrugged.

“I’m not sure, little prince,” he said.

Prompto swallowed his fear as best he could, and pushed away from Ardyn. “Let’s go, then,” he said.


End file.
